


We Were Made for the North, You and I

by man_in_yellow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Protectiveness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/man_in_yellow/pseuds/man_in_yellow
Summary: Post Season 6 - Jon does not go to Dragonstone.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 104





	1. In the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! :) 
> 
> Soooo...this started as a one-shot, but it got away from me and so here we are. This is my first multi-chapter fic! I don’t expect this fic to be very long, I have a pretty good idea of how I want it to go. Some things to know before you read: 
> 
> 1\. This happens some time after Jon and Sansa take back Winterfell from the Boltons and Jon is crowned KitN. 
> 
> 2\. This takes place in the fall - it started as a fall themed one shot because I’m missing autumn and it got away from me, but don’t worry; Winter is Coming.
> 
> 3\. I’m not very good at understanding the politics and logistics of The Game; this is ultimately a love story, so...yeah lol I do my best!
> 
> 4\. I wasn’t sure what to put in the tags or what counts as explicit content; there won’t be any of that for a while though so I guess I can add that tag later...? 
> 
> Okay, well I think that’s all I wanted to say before I let you get started!

Sansa woke up from a half remembered nightmare that morning. She tossed and turned to no avail, and finally accepted that she would not be falling back asleep. She lay in her bed for a while, buried in her furs, staring up into the dimness. The sleep had worn off from her eyes soon enough; she got up and dressed for the day and lazily braided her thick auburn hair into a loose fish tail braid like her mother used to do.

She opened her windows to have a look outside. The sky was pale gray. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but Sansa could still see the gold and russet colors of the changing leaves, their brightness the only splash of color against the gray morning and the pine trees still shrouded in shadows. And amongst them, the blood red leaves of the heart tree. A light rain was falling, forming puddles and shining rivulets on the hallows and cracks in the ground. Mist tethered itself through the castle walls, towers, and trees. The air was chilly and smelled of rain, and all she could hear was the light pitter-patter of the morning’s drizzle. She closed her eyes for a short while and breathed in the smell of autumn .

She turned away from the window, and pulled on her cloak and boots and made her way out. The halls and rooms were quiet; no one had awoken yet. Her footsteps echoed through the granite walls until she stepped outside the castle. Sansa headed for the place that often appeared in her dreams on those lonely nights long ago when she missed home the most. She was in no hurry; she stepped cautiously to avoid getting her dress and cloak muddy, tiptoeing over newly formed pools and puddles here and there, her steps now making a slushing sound over the dampened dirt. The rain drops sprinkled her face and hair, but Sansa didn’t mind it. She only tightened her cloak around her when a chilly gust of wind blew against her back and pulled up her hood to keep her ears warm.

She kept her eyes low the whole way there, making sure there would be no missteps. She could walk her way to the godswood with her eyes closed. She would know she was there once the sounds of the busy castle walls fell away into distant murmurs before going completely silent, and by the fresher air that smelled of pine, wood, and dirt. She reached the clearing around the heart tree. It’s bone-white fingers reached up from the earth and spread wide over the King in the North who sat against it.

The image of he and Ghost sitting beneath the tree was dazzling in its regality, and Sansa’s breath halted in her chest. He was a handsome man, she realized, as if for the first time. She’d spent many nights and days looking into those tired gray eyes, but she never let her eyes wander to the curve of his lips or the shape of his jaw. No, she never let her mind sit in admiration of his dark features. He was her brother after all, even if only half. 

But - much to their shock - he never was her brother. Not whole, not half, not at all. He was her  cousin.  And so then it wasn’t only shock that washed over her, but also relief. . . 

More than anything though, Sansa felt for Jon. For what he’d just learned. For having been robbed of his mother and father and the life he could have had. The life he deserved. For having lived his whole life believing the lie that he was a bastard who did not belong. For all the nights he spent laying in his loneliness. For knowing now that the man he loved the most was never his father. For being burdened with the task of delivering the truth to his lords and banner men, for he was their king. For having to deal with this Targaryen queen - his  _aunt_ \-  who just invited him to Dragonstone. And as if it all already wasn’t an unbelievable load to bear, the threat of the dead still loomed over them. Night and day. She guessed she wasn’t the only one waking up from nightmares that morning.

***

He knew she was approaching before he saw her. He could hear her footsteps, smell her scent. It was odd, this connection he had to Ghost that sometimes let him feel what he felt and smell what he smelled. But he never failed him. Bunching up her skirts in fists on either side of her, came Sansa through the trees. Drops of rain stained her cloak and her cheeks and nose were pinked from the cold, but the sight of her warmed him from the inside out. She always had that effect on him, and just recently he stopped feeling guilty about it. 

Sansa curtsied dramatically when she saw him. “Your Grace,” she said, in an exaggerated tone.

Jon felt the grin forming on his lips at her feigned reverence. “Stop,” he said in a low chuckle. She smiled back at him and went to sit by him. Ghost went to her and nuzzled her face before laying his paws and head on her laps.

“Good boy,” she whispered. “Are you keeping your King safe? You are, aren’t you?”

He liked seeing her like this; not as the Lady of Winterfell or as Lady Stark, but just Sansa. She kept such a cool and composed exterior all the time that it was almost difficult to remember the softness that lived within. But as she sat doting over Ghost and smiling adoringly down at the wolf, it was so easy to see the girl he knew as a boy. He was glad that for all the atrocities she had endured, her kindness and tenderness remained. He was even more thankful that she felt comfortable to let it show around him.

“Why are you out here so early?” She asked, turning her attention to him now.

“I needed to think about. . .” he shrugged. “About  _everything_ ,  I suppose. It’s a lot.” He smiled half heartedly. “And you? It’s early for even the Lady of Winterfell to be up and about. And  _alone_ ,  might I add.”

“I woke up from a nightmare and couldn’t sleep.”

Jon knew about the nightmares. She’d often woken up from them at Castle Black, but she never said what they were about. He didn’t need to ask though, he was sure he could guess.

But even so. . .

“What did you dream?”

Sansa furrowed her eyebrows together and her eyes grew distant. “I don’t remember,” she said after a moment. “And I don’t want to, besides. I’d much rather know what you’re thinking about.”

Jon sighed. He didn’t even know where to begin. When he thought about talking about it all, his chest just felt heavy, and he didn’t think he could speak it all without making an even bigger tangled mess of his thoughts than they already were. But something about this morning felt calm. The godswood was shrouded in stillness and quiet. This place was devoid of noise, devoid of the whole world for that matter. There was only earth, wind, and rain. It was so dim, he didn’t think the sun had risen yet. 

“We just got our home back,” he rasped. “I don’t want to make foolish decisions and jeopardize the North and our safety.” He looked over at her, and her eyes were so soft on his, he decided to keep going. “We would need her armies to defeat the dead, and her dragons too, if she truly has them. But I can’t just trust her. And I can’t trust Tyrion, much as I liked him when he visited Castle Black.” And then, making his stomach twist, he remembered something. “You were married to him. You lived with him. Can I trust him?”

Sansa blinked at his question and looked down to where she was stroking Ghost’s fur. She shook her head subtly. “He’s not like Cersei or Joffrey. He isn’t cruel like them, he is cleverer. Cunning.” Her eyebrows furrowed together again before she looked back to him. “I never trusted him, though. I don’t think you should either. They want something from you.” 

He sighed and nodded. He had already decided that he shouldn’t trust Lannister, but he felt better knowing that Sansa supported that decision. But what now? They didn’t need more enemies and if he rejected the invitation he was sure it would offend the dragon queen.

His aunt.

And that was the other part of it. Should he tell her who he truly is? His parentage meant the Iron Throne was his by rights. He is the rightful heir born and raised in Westeros. His claim is stronger than hers on all counts. He didn’t want it. He had what he wanted here in the North. Would that make a difference to her?

She would find out either way—he would need to share the truth of his identity with the North sooner or later and word travels quickly. Just a handful of people knew at the moment—Sam, Arya, Bran, Sansa, and himself. How he wished he could keep it that way, but. . .

For all the confusion and shock that the revelation of his identity brought with it, there was also some good that might yet come from it once it is common knowledge.

“Jon,” she said quietly, yet startling him from his thoughts. He turned to her. Her brows were pulled into a frown in that way they often were now. He wanted to run his thumb over them to smooth them out for her. But he kept his hands on his laps as she continued. “You are the true born son of Rhaegar Targaryen. The Iron Throne is yours by rights.” Just then he began to wonder if she had somehow heard his thoughts. She stalled for a moment and then lowered her voice when she asked, “Do you want it?”

“No,” he said immediately. “The North is a part of me and it’s all I’ve ever wanted. This is where I belong; whether it be as a bastard, a king, or a Targaryen.” Sansa’s frown disappeared at his reply, and Jon was quite pleased with himself when a soft smile pulled on her lips. “Besides,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders, “where will  _ we  _ go, remember? If I were to take the Iron Throne in King’s Landing you’d have to come with me. I don’t think either of us would be happy in the hot south. We were made for the North, you and I.”

Sansa smiled and looked up at him through her eyelashes, and just then Jon realized how close to each other they were. He could count the freckles on her nose and beneath her eyes. He started to lean into her, heart fluttering in his chest when he felt her press close to him. His eyes darted down to her mouth when her pink lips parted, and he swallowed thickly when he wondered what they would feel like between his own. Their foreheads were nearly touching now, and her breath was hot against his lips. He just now realized how much he wanted to kiss her. 

Just as Sansa tilted her head up and her eyelids slipped closed-

Just as Jon started to lift a hand to cup her face -

A loud clap of thunder jolted them out of their embrace. They leaned back and looked at each other; Sansa’s cheeks were flushed and the look in her eyes was as sheepish as Jon felt. But there wasn’t time now to sit in the awkwardness, because just then it was as if the floodgates of all seven heavens were opened.

***

The rain was falling gently and quietly around them as Jon put his arm around her and leaned close to her. She had never kissed a man before; not one she  _ wanted _ to kiss, anyway. But sitting beneath the heart tree, warmly tucked into Jon’s side with his arm holding her to him, Sansa felt the longing she used to feel as a girl to kiss a handsome and gentle knight. And that was the thing about Jon that made her want to kiss him at all - he made her feel like herself again. He restored a part of her that was broken when she was a girl. She could believe that men were kind, that kings were brave, and that knights were gentle because he had proven all these things to her himself without ever expecting anything from her.

But their lips never touched. Instead, they gathered themselves up from where they sat and ran back to the castle as the rain lashed down from the sky. Sansa couldn’t remember the last time it had rained this heavily. They could hardly see where they were going; a thick curtain of rain was drawn before them. Jon held her hand and lead her back to the castle. Ghost got there before them, naturally. Dripping wet, Sansa took the lead once inside and walked them to her chambers. They stood behind the closed door of her room for a moment, catching their breath. A giggle bubbled up her chest at the sight of Jon completely rain-drenched and muddy. 

“What?” Jon asked, slicking his curls back.

“You’re a mess,” Sansa said between giggles.

Jon took a minute to look himself over and then chuckled. He pointed to the muddy puddle around Sansa’s feet and said, “Aye, and you’re  _ making  _ a mess.”

Sansa looked down to find her boots and the fringes of her gown and cloak caked in mud; her hair was dripping water over her shoulder. For some queer reason, this made her burst out in laughter all over again. She couldn’t remember the last time she ran in the rain or cared so little about getting dirty. She laughed so hard she gave a little snort. Her hand flew up to her mouth and her eyes widened, but Jon only hunched over in full laughter now.

“Well, that wasn’t very lady like,” he said once he had composed himself.

“Don’t you dare tell Arya!” 

Jon made a sealing motion over his lips. Their laughter and giggles died down, but Jon still smiled and all Sansa could do was stare. He so often wore a wary expression; seeing such a broad and honest smile on him melted something inside her. 

_Gods, you really should smile more,_ she thought.

“What?”

_Oh, seven hells._

Sansa’s cheeks and ears burned when she realized she had spoken the words aloud and not within her own mind.

“I—“  _You fool, now what do I say?_ “ I only meant that. . .”

Jon just stood there staring at her with his eyebrows raised and a slight pull on the corner of his lips. Oh gods, yes, she meant what she said.

“You should smile more,” she said, sure of herself. She bit her bottom lip and shrugged. “I like it.” Her heart fluttered in her chest at how brave she sounded to herself when she said the words.

“And I think,” Jon began, moving closer to her, “you should laugh more.” He stepped once, twice, and again. He was so close to her now, his lips just a hair away. His voice was low and thick. It stirred something in her. “The kind of laugh that makes you snort _unladylike_.” He slowly ran his forefinger down the slope of her nose. “I like it,” he whispered.

He took a step back and excused himself to change into dry clothes. He closed the door behind him, and Sansa stood against it, breathless again but for an entirely different reason. 


	2. After the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon go about their business in WF as king and lady. They make a decision about meeting Dany. Littlefinger is introduced into this chapter and he’s as snakelike as ever. We also get to see Arya and some jealous/protective Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! :) Thank you all so much for your comments and kudos on chapter 1! 
> 
> So, here’s chapter two. Again, I am NOT skilled in understanding the politics of Westeros and the North or how The Game works, so I hope I’m making sense here. 🤷🏽♀️
> 
> Ultimately it’s a Jonsa love story 😊 
> 
> So have at it!
> 
> (Some of the phrases/dialogue come straight from the show, I’m sure you’ll be able to know which ones they are!)

The day hadn’t brightened up, as the rain clouds formed a canopy of dark gray over Winterfell. Sansa played the morning over in her head, remembering the details of his movements, the softness of his voice, the warmth of his body, the delicacy of his glance. They’d shared several close, quiet moments before. When he rubbed her back after a nightmare at Castle Black. When she washed the dirt, blood, and sweat from his face and hair after the battle of the bastards. When he kissed her on the forehead while they stood on the battlements and his eyes darted to her lips before he walked away. His longing glances illuminated by firelight, stirring a part of her awake again. And each one Sansa had tucked away in a sacred place within herself, allowing her mind to escape there only in the hallows of the night.

But she was dragged back down to reality; she was the Lady of Winterfell and she had responsibilities. She donned her black gown of leather and wool—resembling Jon’s blacks from his time in the Night’s Watch—lightly armored and fully covered from mid-neck down to her wrists and ankles. She wore her hair plainly: straight down her back but for the two braids that held it back from her face. When she looked into the mirror she saw Lady Stark staring back at her, and then it was time to put away girlish daydreams and focus her attention and energy on the needs of the North.

They had spent the day discussing their undead enemy, the dragon queen’s presence in Westeros and how her invitation to Dragonstone should be handled. While these two dangers towered over them from both sides, they still had Cersei in the south who would never relent her pursuit of complete dominance over Westeros, including the North.  _ Especially  _ the North.

And no one had bled more for the North than Sansa. She wore the medals of Robb’s victories as scars on her body, and she knew she had to continue his fight if and when no one else would. He died for it—she would live her life for it. Jon had spent the whole day in the company of his advisors; they spoke their minds and opinions to him, and Jon did his kingly duty by listening to each one. Sansa stood by and watched every face, those speaking and non-speaking. She heard every voice, and contemplated every perspective. They flipped their circumstances every which way to find solutions that made sense and weighed every possible outcome. Some said Jon should go to Dragonstone and volunteered themselves to go with him. Others refused the suggestion adamantly, saying their King needed to stay in Winterfell to help prepare for the Night King’s inevitable arrival. At one point it was even suggested that the Lady of Winterfell should meet with the dragon queen’s hand; she was married to him after all, perhaps they could reach an agreement in favor of the North.

“No,” Jon had said.

“Your Grace, Lady Sansa knows the imp better than any of us. She would never be alone with him, I assure you,” one of the lords said. “He may hold some affection for her. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage?”

“ _No_ ”, he said again, this time in a low and chilling tone that brooked no argument. Silence fell over the room, until Lord Davos spoke up and relieved some of the tension. 

“Does he not trust you could get the job done?” Petyr Baelish’s words slithered into her ear from where he stood by her side. He was never far away from her, always lurking in some shadow, behind a column, around a corner. Always creeping about. Always listening. Loathe as she was to have him in her home, she had to keep him close. If she let him walk away, if he felt dismissed or betrayed, he’d be plotting against the North just like the rest of the world currently was.

“He’s only protecting me,” she answered, cool and calm, eyes trained on Jon.

“One must wonder how much he’ll keep from you, or keep  _you_ from in the name of  _protecting_.”  His whispers came cold from his mouth and smelled like mint.

Jon must have felt her eyes on him, because he turned to look at her suddenly as Baelish leaned into her to whisper something else. He quickly leaned back when Jon shot him a cold, hard glare. If Baelish had anything else to say he kept it well to himself the rest of the time they were there. 

*

Her big round eyes regarded her carefully from the side as she sat on the settee sharpening her dagger. “I never thought much of your friends, you know.” Her voice was calm and smooth, sounding so different from the loud rambunctious child Sansa remembered. “But I quite loathe this new one you’ve got.” Arya lowered her eyes back down to her dagger, sliding the stone over it slowly, carefully. 

“What friend?” Sansa said. 

“Petyr Baelish.”

Of course. No one watched Baelish as closely as Jon did besides Arya. But then, Arya watched  _everyone_ with quiet, inquisitive eyes, as if she were reading all their secrets in the way they spoke, in the way they moved. It made her uneasy, this skill her sister had now to be able to read people so well. Could she also read Sansa just as easily? There were some things she hoped she hadn’t picked up on. 

“Petyr Baelish is not my friend,” Sansa said. 

“No? Does he know that? He certainly behaves familiarly enough with you.” 

If Arya thought he behaved familiarly with her publicly, she was sure to think there was more than friendship between them if she ever knew what he was like privately. She’d likely cut his face off in that fancy, awful way she’d learned in Braavos. The thought made her shudder, but it also amused her. Baelish was sneaky and artful in his lurking, but if anyone could get close enough to him without setting off his suspicions it was Arya. But even so, Sansa couldn’t bring herself to have him killed. For so long he was the only safety she’d had— _thought_ she’d had. It wasn’t anything like what she felt when she first laid eyes on Jon at the Wall. No, Petyr always wanted something from her; she could see it in his roving eyes and taste it on his greedy lips. But having been with Joffrey was worse. King’s Landing was worse. Ramsay was worse. Of all the evils she’d endured, he seemed like the lesser of them. He claimed he loved her, and she believed a part of him did. She didn’t trust him, she wasn’t a fool or a naive little girl any longer. But, the thought of parting from him permanently made her apprehensive. She was confused by it.

“We’ve been around each other for a long time, he’s gotten used to me is all.”

Arya kept her eyes on her blade and nodded her understanding slowly, with her lips puckered in concentration. 

“I traveled with the Hound for a long time, you know,” she said after several moments. Her voice low. 

Sansa didn’t know that. She hadn’t thought of the Hound in ages, it felt like. The last time she saw him was that night of the battle on the Blackwater. The memory of it made her stomach lurch. She’d been so young then. So full of hope of home and so blind to how much things could worsen. She saw his silhouette in memory, walking toward her, leaning over her and stealing a kiss.

_No, that isn’t right. . ._

A song. He stole a song. 

_I’ll have that song now._

Safe and sound in her own solar and yet her hands trembled with the memory of that night. His scarred face, his eyes always gleaming with hate, his hoarse and scratchy voice. He never did harm her though; never abused her like the other knights did. Part of her knew he never would. Another part of her though, quickly learned that princes, knights, and singers made some of the scariest monsters in all the realm. 

To hear that Arya had been with him left her feeling nonplussed and ill. 

“You did? When? Where?” She demanded.

“Before I left for Braavos. He planned to take me to Mother and Robb and trade me for a ransom. But then we arrived to the Twins and. . .” 

Her voice trailed off and she tilted her head to the other side. The stone glided over the dagger blade slower. She was somewhere far away. Her eyes glistened under a salt sheen, and she swallowed tightly before going on. 

“So then we made way to the Vale,” she started again.“He was going to give me to Aunt Lysa, when she was still alive.” She shot Sansa a quick glance as she said those last words. “Brienne found us on the road one day, and they fought over whoI would go with. I hid, and when they were finished Brienne couldn’t find me. I was quiet as a cat. When she left I came and found him injured and bloody. He wasn’t going to make it.” She put her dagger and stone down and turned to face Sansa directly. “Do you remember the list I told you about?”

Yes, how could she forget her little sister’s list of people to kill? Sansa nodded her head. 

“The Hound was on my list. So I left him there to die. He begged me to kill him. Cried and begged like a little baby. He said he did all these awful things to you, to make me angry, but I didn’t believe them. If he did that to you he would have done the same to me, and he never did. I don’t think he ever could. But he was still the worse shit in all the seven kingdoms as far as I was concerned. And yet, somewhere along the way, I forgot to recite his name off my list. When I left him there to die, I told myself it’s what he gets. He didn’t deserve a quick and easy death. But, the truth is I didn’t want him dead anymore. He was off my list. Only because he fed me and kept me from men who would have raped and killed me or worse. Only because we’d been together for a long time.” 

Arya echoed Sansa’s own words back to her.

It both relieved and frightened Sansa to be seen so plainly. No one truly cared about her wellbeing for the longest time until she met Jon again, and now Arya was here. And from what she had just said, she knew what it was to have formed an imbalanced and virulent bond with a monster. What it was like to hate him but also pity him. Sansa wanted him dead for having sold her to the Boltons, knowing the things that they were capable of. But in some small, dark, scared, and traumatized place inside, she felt that she might miss him if he were gone. 

_What is wrong with you_ ,  she asked herself. 

She looked back into Arya’s eyes, and wondered if her sister were able to know how she felt, if she would also ask her the same question. 

“Petyr Baelish is not my friend,” Sansa said again, in a quiet, thin voice. “We just have to not let him wander too far away where we can’t keep an eye on him. For now.”

Arya picked up her dagger and stone again and shifted back to her previous sitting position on the settee.

“For now,” she echoed. And then she looked at her again, eyelids low and expression calm, and said, “But if he touches you even once, you know Jon will have his head on a block before anyone can object, and I’ll be the one to fetch it for him.” 

***

Jon stood before his mother’s statue in the crypts. He looked into her stone eyes, forever staring off into nothing. All his life he yearned to know who his mother was. 

He grew up with a void that was gnawed larger by unanswered questions, resentment that his father never told him who his mother was, the ache of longing for a mother’s affections. All stoked by the bitterness that Lady Stark only saw Ned’s base desires and faithlessness in him, and not the good and honorable boy that Jon always tried to be. He never blamed her for what she felt, how could he? He was born of wickedness, as all bastards are. 

He had always been thankful that his lord father kept him and raised him as his own at Winterfell. Jon was luckier than most bastards had been, to be born to an honorable lord who loved him and raised him in his castle, even if he had to keep him at a distance from the Stark family. He loved his brothers and sisters, loved when they spent time and played together and it didn’t matter that he had the Stark name or not. He wouldn’t trade them for anything, yet he always wondered what life would be like had he been raised by his mother who he imagined was high born and beautiful. Always wondered if he had other brothers and sisters. And the truth was always just beneath his feet that whole time. He played in these crypts as a boy and never knew that his mother’s bones were so close. 

_I wish I could have known you,_ he thought as he looked into her stone eyes. But thinking on it now, he  did  know her, in a way. All the stories he’d heard of his aunt Lyanna, were really stories about his mother. She was bright and beautiful. A skilled horseback rider. She loved songs and blue winter roses like Sansa, and shooting arrows and had wolfsblood in her like Arya. She was a fighter, fierce and outspoken. She believed in true love, and ran away with Rhaegar Targaryen while she was betrothed to a Baratheon. She was true to herself and her own convictions. So, although he never met her and doesn’t even remember the sound of her voice or the thrum of her heart, Jon was comforted by the thought that he’d actually known his mother all his life. In the stories, in his father, in Arya, in Sansa. She grew up where he did. Roamed the same halls, listened to Old Nan’s stories, prayed at the same heart tree. A small smile lighted his lips when he realized that in Winterfell, he was closer to his mother than he knew. 

Even carved out of stone he could see that she was as beautiful as all the stories had said. He often wondered if she loved him. If she ever held him. If she was even the one who named him. Where did the name  _Aegon_ come from?  _Snow_ had been his defining name all his life. Declared to the world he was a bastard, born out of lust and base needs, that his blood was evil and wanton, that he’d never inherit anything. That he was incapable of anything but a bastard’s honor. Now, he wondered who gave him his name and why. Did she cradle that name in her mind and heart as he grew in her belly? Or was it his true father who named him. . .? 

“Your Grace,” called a voice, darker and colder than the crypts. It startled Jon out from his musings, tore him from the solace he had just begun to find. He turned to find Littlefinger approaching him, identifiable only by his silhouette and the chill in his voice. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” Littlefinger looked at Jon with a thin smile and mirthless eyes. He stepped carefully, slowly. The sight of him in those crypts where his family was buried and where the kings of winter sat felt wrong. Like an insult to every Stark who ever lived. After what he’d done to Sansa, Jon should have his neck stretched over a block, waiting for the cool steel of Longclaw to sever him from his head. And yet, there he stood; because when Sansa called upon him, he came. Him and all the knights of the Vale. He wondered why Sansa planned it all behind his back, with Littlefinger of all people. Had she not trusted him? No, perhaps not fully. Jon didn’t know of all that she’d endured, but he imagined trusting didn’t come as easily to her as it once did before. And he understood that; he knew all too well what it meant to be betrayed by someone you trusted. But still, he’d wished she would’ve had more faith in him than that. 

“I expected to hear from you after the battle of the bastards. That is still what you are, isn’t it? A bastard.” 

Jon ignored his ending remark. Yes, to the whole world save his family and closest friend, he was a bastard. And it used to twist something in him to be reminded of it by others. But, even before he learned of his parentage, Jon had decided that he wouldn’t let anyone use it against him to make him feel inferior. Because despite what he thought he’d been all his life, he still had Ned Stark’s blood. Ned Stark had fathered four sons, not three.

At least that’s what he had thought.

“Why would I call upon you?”

“To thank me.”

“ _Thank_ you?”

“For the knights of the Vale. You wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for me. None of us would be. Your Grace,” he ended with a mocking grin.

“They rode here for Sansa. We stand here because of  _Sansa_.”

“Sansa,” he echoed in a way Jon didn’t like. His expression was ponderous, eyes trailing off to the side, lingering on the statue of Lyanna. “I do wonder why she came to me behind your back.” Without moving his head from its tilted direction toward Lyanna, his eyes darted back to Jon. “She is a lot like her mother, isn’t she? Intelligent. Soft. Beautiful. A proper lady. Although. . .Cat never did care for you, did she? Tell me, Your Grace,” he said, facing Jon directly now, “how do you think Lady Catelyn would feel knowing her lord husband’s bastard sat as King in Winterfell over her true born Stark daughter? Oh, well, I suppose it doesn’t matter now. _You’re_ the King. Sansa  _is_ a lot like her mother, but I’m sure she doesn’t resent her bastard half brother for being elected king over her. Even if she doesn’t fully trust him.”

Jon didn’t know Littlefinger closely; this was the first conversation he’d ever had with him, but he could see the web he was trying to spin. Even so, he was right. Jon was no bastard, but he did not deserve to be King in the North, Stark blood or no. It should have been Sansa. 

“I have nothing to say to you,” Jon said, and walked past him to make his way back up. 

“You should know, Your Grace, my intentions with Lady Sansa.”

_Intentions_?  Jon halted and his stomach twisted. He felt his heartbeat rise and the familiar tremble of adrenaline that formed just beneath his skin right before a fight. The insinuation of his words disgusted him, but the audacity of the man is what really made his blood boil. Jon had been watching him all day, and he didn’t like the familiarity he took with Sansa. How closely he leaned into her, how he was always looking at her lips when he spoke to her, how he watched her walk away with a dubious grin. He didn’t understand why Sansa kept him around and allowed him to be so close. Surely she must know that if she wanted him gone all she needed to do was say so. Nothing would give him as much pleasure as shutting him up for good. Unless, she didn’t want him gone. . .? No, she said herself that he sold her to the Boltons. She wasn’t a naive girl, she couldn’t be so easily manipulated by Littlefinger. Could she? 

“I love Sansa.”

It’s the words he dreaded but knew were coming. His greediness for her was plain in his eyes, but even so, Jon had to still himself from turning and strangling him right then and there. Had he tried something with Sansa before? Had he made a pass at her, forced her to do anything she didn’t want to? She never told him, and he never asked.

“As I loved her mother.”

It was enough. It was all it took to make Jon forget he was a king, forget propriety, forget control. With a curl of his lip and a rumbling growl, he whirled around and found great pleasure in the way Littlefinger flinched away from him. With his scarred hand he reached for him and gripped Baelish by the throat, pinning him against the stone wall with a satisfied grunt. Effortlessly. Jon marveled at the small man’s strained face, the way he clawed feebly at Jon’s hand, the way his face reddened and purpled. Jon squeezed his grip, knowing he only needed to hold him there a few moments longer and then Winterfell and Westeros and Sansa and he would be rid of Littlefinger forever.Baelish let out a choking sound, his eyes were slipping shut. He knew it was enough, that he should stop. But he could only think of Petyr’s hands on Sansa, his lips whispering into her ear, the lewd glances he’d shoot her way, and it was all he could do not to snap his little neck right then and there. 

“You come down here, in  _ my  _ home and insult me, and then dare to—what? Seek my  _ approval  _ of your  _ intentions _ ?” Jon’s voice was strained from all the control he had to harness from inside to not kill the snake. Baelish only gasped for air, or  tried  to rather.

“ _Touch_ my sister, and I’ll kill you myself,” Jon spat. 

He let go of Littlefinger’s neck, and watched him fall to his knees, grasping his throat and chest. Jon watched him for a short moment, allowing his rage and his heartbeat to settle down before starting back up the steps. 

*

He was a man of the Night’s Watch, a former Lord Commander, a fighter; he’s killed Others and had been killed himself; he fought a war for his home and won against the odds. Now he held Winterfell as the King in the North. Of all the things and people he’d faced, none managed to disarm him as swiftly and fully as Sansa Stark. This woman moved him in a way no one else ever could, and it half frightened, half thrilled him. 

The morning had felt like a dream, a warm one despite the cold wind and rain. It poured all day, and all day Jon carried out his duties as king and Sansa as Winterfell’s lady. The questions and uncertainties that plagued him still remained, and he spent the whole day surrounded by his advisors, lords, and northmen. Sansa was never far away or gone too long, and when their eyes met, he could feel that the world had somehow shifted between them. 

The truth of his feelings for her were veiled by the relationship he thought tied them together. He could attribute his overprotectiveness and longing to be near her to the fact that she was his sister. But the truth of it was plain in Jon’s heart, and he hated himself for having succumbed to the evil and wantonness in his bastard’s blood. But he was never a bastard and she was never his sister. That morning, a secret had been whispered between them; one that Jon swore to keep to himself until his last breath, and one he never would have imagined that Sansa harbored within herself. But the way she looked at him, the way she pressed herself to him in the godswood, the way her voice sounded when she said she liked his smile. . . She felt the same, didn’t she? 

All this and more rolled around in his head as his legs carried him to her chambers. He stopped right outside her door and lifted a fist to the wood. He knocked three times. 

“Come in,” she called. 

He opened the door and let himself in, showing her the plate of pumpkin bread he’d brought from the kitchens. “I managed to steal a few slices,” he said. 

She smiled. “You’re the King, you can’t steal from what’s already yours.” She patted the seat next to her before the hearth. He sat and offered her a slice which she took without hesitation. They sat in the quiet for a while, enjoying their baked goods. He liked this. The unrelenting rain lashed against the granite walls outside in the dark, and inside the only sound was the crackling fire. There was so much he wanted to say, but he was content to sit in the warmth and quiet too. Sansa stood and poured them each a cup of mead. Handing him his mug, she asked, “Have you decided what to do about the dragon queen?” 

She spoke with the voice of Lady Stark, and though not unkind, she seemed reserved and careful. So different from before; he wondered if maybe he had only imagined her tenderness toward him from earlier.

He took a gulp of mead and swallowed the words he’d come to say down with it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“We have to work out an alliance somehow. I thought we could invite Tyrion here, and perhaps we could come to some agreement.” He watched Sansa’s expression to see if he could decipher what she thought of that idea. She only drank from her cup and kept her eyes on the flames. 

Finally, she asked, “What sort of agreement are you hoping for?” 

“She recognizes the North as an independent kingdom, and when the time comes, she unites her armies and dragons with us against the dead. In turn we support her claim to the Iron Throne, and she needn’t worry that I will fight her for it once I reveal the truth of who I am.” 

“You said you didn’t want the Iron Throne,” she said, shooting her glance to him. 

“I don’t, but she—“

“Doesn’t know that,” Sansa said with him in unison. “Having the honorable Ned Stark’s son and King in the North, who turns out to be the true heir, support her claim to the throne might make all the difference in her fight against Cersei,” she thought aloud, staring at the far wall behind him. “How do you know dragons will kill the Night King?”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But it couldn’t hurt to have them on our side.”

Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes trailing about in thought. “But we don’t know her.” She looked at him then. “What if she’s as mad as her father was and in the future believes that you’re conspiring against her for her crown?” 

He’d thought of that too, but there weren’t many options afforded to them now. Daenerys Targaryen wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. She wanted Westeros, and Jon wanted to keep the North independent from her and safe from the Others with as little bloodshed as possible. He held on to the hope that revealing himself as her blood would still her hand from acting against him and his home. She thought she had been the last Targaryen all this time, and Jon knew what it was like to feel like you were all alone in the world. 

“Invite her here with Tyrion,” Sansa said, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“ _Here_?  With three full grown dragons?”

“No, she’d have to leave her dragons behind.” 

“I don’t think she’ll be so easily inclined to do that.”

“Why not? Why would she not be willing to do something she’s asking of you—trust an unknown ruler?” 

He had no answer for her, he only knew that he was tired of fighting, tired of playing games, and tired of living in dread of coming wars. Sansa must have sensed his wariness, because she placed a hand on his shoulder and softened her voice.

“If she refuses it will give us some insight to how reasonable she is. And if she accepts, then we’re that much closer to coming to an agreement. Besides, it’ll give us an opportunity to see the kind of army she brings with her.”

The thought of a foreign queen stepping foot in Winterfell made him uneasy. Starks and Targaryens had a bloody history between them, and he was less than eager to meet this aunt of his. But their options weren’t many, and they didn’t have much time. Sansa was right. They needed to know the type of woman they were dealing with while not jeopardizing his own safety and the North’s by going to Dragonstone alone. He sighed heavily and nodded his agreement to her. 

“Sansa. . .once the truth of my parentage is revealed, the North won’t want me as their king.”

“You’re a Targaryen  _and_ a Stark,” she hurried to reassure him, squeezing her hold on his shoulder. It moved him every time she did that. “You saved Winterfell from the Boltons, they’ll—“

“Just listen.” 

She clamped her lips shut, dragged her hand from his shoulder back onto her lap, and looked at him with a wary expression. Jon looked back to the fire, hoping to collect his thoughts before he spoke. 

(Missing the warmth of her hand on him.)

“I’ll give my crown up if it’s what they want. I’m sure they’ll want to name you queen, and I’ll support that fully and completely if it’s what they want—if it’s what  _you_ want.” 

“You’re our king,” she protested quietly, brows furrowed again into that frown.

(That frown that he wanted to smooth with his thumb but also grew to love.)

“Aye, for now, I’m your king. But you’re Ned Stark’s true born daughter. We have to be prepared for the possibility of you being elected their Queen in the North. Besides, I’ve already told you; the North is where I belong, no matter what my name or title may be.” 

Sansa let out a heavy sigh. “We can figure that out when we get there. For now, let’s write a counter invitation to Daenerys and my _dear_ _husband_ Tyrion.” Those last words were dripping with sarcasm, and also. . .nervousness? 

“Sansa, you don’t have to be in the same room with him if you don’t want to.” 

“I’m not afraid of Tyrion. He never hurt me. He was kind to me. Besides,” she said with a small smile, “I’m the Lady of Winterfell. I should meet this Daenerys Targaryen and find out what we’re dealing with.” 

Now why did that make him feel even more uneasy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think! All your comments and feedback are so appreciated! 💛


	3. In the Stillness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon deals with the North’s reaction to their coming visitor. LF is creepy toward Sansa as per usual. Jon has a moment of reflection at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took me a while to finish up because of work and life, but I finally got it! As always, please let me know what you think. Your comments are insightful, encouraging, and amazing to read! 💛

They hadn’t spent much time together since the night they spoke in her solar and decided to invite the dragon queen and Tyrion to Winterfell. She helped him write the letter, he signed it, she sealed it. The next day Jon had told his advisors what he decided to do. Most of them were unhappy about a foreigner coming to Winterfell, especially one who was on the precipice of war. The North had suffered and bled enough. All of them had. Sansa spoke up to reassure them. 

“I understand your wariness, my lords,” she’d said, hushing the groaning crowd. “I am not contented myself to have this foreign queen come to our home. But—“

“Then don’t do this!” someone interrupted, in a way they never would Jon, king or no.

“ _But_ , ” Sansa pressed with a louder voice and an icy glare, “there is no way to avoid her. And I will not sit here while my brother goes off to put himself in danger on an island much too far away from our reach.”

“Our king will be safer meeting her here, surrounded by his people and his army, than he would be were he to meet her on Dragonstone, my lords. My lady,” Davos spoke up and addressed all in the room, bowing his head to Lyanna Mormont at the end of his reassurance.

“And does this foreign queen bring her dragons North with her?” Lady Mormont said.

“We’ve asked her to leave her dragons behind, my lady,” Jon said. “If she accepts our invitation and our terms for her visit, we do expect her to bring part of her army with her.”

Grumbling broke out in the room once more. They didn’t like foreigners or visitors of any kind, and Jon was just as wary of this particular visitor as they were. He didn’t expect them to welcome her or even like her, but what else was there to be done? He couldn’t abandon them to go meet her, he couldn’t send someone else in his stead, and he couldn’t ignore her either. She was as great a threat as the enemy to the north and the one to the south. Even greater, perhaps, if she truly had three dragons, and if the rumors of her army were true. Shouldn’t he try to make peace with her? Shouldn’t he find a way to avoid making more enemies? He was at a loss. He only ever wanted to keep the North and his family safe.

He wasn’t sure what to say to reassure them, to placate them and make them understand that he was trying to be a good king and protector.

And then her hand settled gently on his wrist from where she sat beside him, and the words were already forming on his tongue.

***

Sansa knew they wouldn’t like this idea. She saw how they grumbled and whispered to each other. She saw the uncertainty in their eyes, the way they shifted on their heels. The North was not accustomed to foreigners, did not like their visit or their presence there. Jon was doing his best to ease them, but they were not a people easily mollified.

Arya shifted where she stood by her side, no doubt reading all the faces in the room and uncomfortable by the tension. Bran was stoic as ever, giving no hint to what he might be thinking or feeling.

Sansa looked around the room, and found him leaning against the wall, northmen standing in front of him, obscuring the full view of him, but she could still see his face. Half covered in shadow, she didn’t like the way his glinting eyes sat on Jon or the half smile he wore. She could see the wheels in his head turning. Varys was known as the spider, but Sansa knew Petyr Baelish could weave webs just as awful and trapping as anyone she’d known. A protectiveness unfurled in her. She’d been victim once to Littlefinger’s schemes and would not let him play with another member of her pack.

Keeping her eyes fixed on him where he stood, she placed a hand on Jon’s wrist.

 _Not this one_ ,  she wanted to say.  _Not any of us ever again._

Jon turned his head slightly toward her, then stood from his chair and addressed the room with a voice of a king.

(Her hand slipped back down to her armrest, the memory of his skin still warm on her fingertips.)

“I didn’t ask to be your king.” A hush fell over the room. “You all chose me and crowned me your King in the North. This is my home, and I will never stop fighting to protect it. The North is a part of me, my lords, my lady. I did not come here to ask your permission to invite the dragon queen. I’ve already decided. I need you all to  try to understand that I am doing what I think is best for the North, for my home, and for my people.”

There was a tense silence in the room. Ser Davos watched the crowd with studious eyes. Arya stood stiffly by her side now, her face still and cold as stone, as if challenging anyone to speak up against her brother— _cousin_ (but Jon would always be Arya’s brother).

Finally, Lyanna Mormont stood from her seat and spoke with all the certainty and clarity of a woman thrice her age. 

“We chose Jon Snow to be our king and to lead us. And now, at the first obstacle he is forced to face he needs us  _with him,_ not questioning and whining against him like a bunch of green boys.” Grown men who towered over her shifted bashfully on their heels like children who’d just been scolded. “If you say this is the best way, Your Grace, then I trust you’ve thought it all through.”

  
“I have, my lady.” Jon said. Lady Mormont bowed her head to him and sat again.

They were all dismissed shortly after that. Lady Mormont quickly shut up any lingering argument with her rebuke. The audience filtered out of the hall, but Littlefinger remained in the shadow of the column, waiting, watching her. Arya went over to roll Bran out on his chair. As she walked across in front of Sansa, she put her hand on the hilt of her sword and eyed Baelish sharply. Baelish didn’t seem to notice, for he kept his eyes trained on Sansa. It used to strike her with fear, the way his eyes watched her. Claimed her. But within the walls of her own home, she felt brave and far beyond his reach.

“That didn’t go so well,” Jon said from beside her.

“It could have been much worse.” Her response came out sharper than she meant, and Jon only blinked away from her and nodded. She hadn’t meant to dismiss him, but her mind was still on Littlefinger and the look he’d given Jon, and the way he was still staring at her now from the shadows. Nearly everyone was gone from the hall, yet he remained.

“Aye. It could have been worse.” They both stood from their seats and and pushed in their chairs. They walked together, but parted when Sansa walked toward Littlefinger. Jon took a step to the side when they reached the door to let Sansa through first, and then his eyes fell on she and Baelish standing together. His eyes flicked between them, something like suspicion filling them, and just as quickly as Sansa noticed the flare of his nostrils and the tension in his shoulders did he slip on a blank stare and turned to walk out.

“The king is very protective of you, my lady.”

“He has good reason to be. There are all sorts of monsters lurking about these days.” He only blinked at the remark.

“Do you truly think inviting the dragon queen here is wise, Lady Sansa?” He quickly changed the topic of their conversation.

“I’d much rather have her visit us here than have Jon off on some island where he’s far from our protection.”

“Very protective of each other you’ve  _both_ become, haven’t you?”

They walked outside and were met with a light sprinkle of rain.

“We’re family. The last of the Starks, it’s what we do.”

“Do you know much of her?”

“The Dragon Queen? Only that she’s the daughter of the mad king who slaughtered my grandfather and uncle, and rumors that she has three dragons.”

“Yes, that is what most people know of her. But her dragons are no rumor.”

“How do you know that?” They kept walking, to nowhere in particular, but Sansa did not want to be alone with him within walls.

“You know me better than that by now, my lady,” he said with a smirk. “But I  _ have _ heard gossip, and she is rumored to be very persuasive. Strong in her beliefs. Just. Comely. I’m sure His Grace the king will be quite taken with her.”

“How do you mean?”

Littlefinger looked about them, eyeing the people who passed by, and kept quiet until there wasn’t anyone near who could pick up the sound of his voice.

“She’s a just and beautiful queen. He’s an honorable and handsome king. Both young and unmarried. They make a good match, don’t they?”

The thought made Sansa’s stomach turn. She hadn’t thought about Jon and Daenerys...the possibility that she might want to make a marriage alliance to unite the Seven Kingdoms. Jon was her nephew, but surely that wouldn’t matter to her; Targaryens married their own brothers and sisters. But Jon wouldn’t want that. Though fathered by a Targaryen, he wasn’t raised as such. He wouldn’t want that. He wouldn’t.

But if it was to protect the North...

“Jon wouldn’t want to marry her.” Sansa said, shaking her head. She said the words aloud and willed her doubtful thoughts to leave her.

(And perhaps he wouldn’t  _want_ to, but he’d do anything to protect the North. This much Sansa knew to be true.)

“I think we ought to be prepared for any way this could go. You already know what  I want, Sansa. For us.” He reached out and took her hand, stalling her before she could take another step. Sansa looked about them, and was weary to find that there was no one around who might make him remember his courtesies.

“And what is that, Lord Baelish?”

He walked toward her, nearly closing the space between them, and slid his hand up to her elbow. “Me, on the Iron Throne, and you, by my side as queen.” He licked his lips and leaned into her, staring down at her mouth. He nearly kissed her. She nearly let him.

She gently placed her palm on his chest, stilling him in his leaned in position.

“Lord Baelish—“

“Petyr,” he insisted.

“Lord Baelish,” she said in a slower, harder tone. He stiffened in place, and glided his eyes from her mouth up to her own. She leveled him with her stare, and he started to lean away from her. “If my brother were to see you behaving familiarly with me he would be less than happy.”

“ _Half_ brother,” he said.

 _ Not my brother at all.  _ If only he knew.

“The last of the Starks,” he repeated her words. “Except he isn’t, is he?” he said lowly.

Sansa’s heart dropped to her stomach.  _ Did _ he know the truth? No. How could he? Her shoulders tensed suddenly, her mind racing, trying to think who could have possibly revealed Jon’s secret. She was mindful of her expression, careful not to give anything away, but she couldn’t help the way her brows creased and the slight flare of her nostrils.

“He’s a motherless bastard, born in the south, and the North follows him anyway. Shouldn’t they follow Ned and Catelyn Stark’s true born daughter instead? Shouldn’t they rally behind  _ you  _ instead?” His voice came low and raspy, like stones grinding together.

Relieved to know the true meaning of his words, Sansa’s tongue unstuck from the roof of her mouth and let her speak.

“Jon is our king, Lord Baelish—“ Sansa started.

“Please, call me Petyr,” he said, never once taking his eyes off her lips.

“—what you speak is treason.”

“I speak the truth, my lady, and I mean no harm by it. I wonder what the dragon queen might make of him.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

Sansa tired of entertaining unpleasant hypotheticals and of Littlefinger’s presence. She walked passed him to the godswood, where she might find some peace in the solitude, leaving Littlefinger to stand alone in the rain. But just like a half dreamt nightmare, Littlefinger left her feeling unsettled throughout the day. The discomfort lingered over her.

***

Jon walked through the door of his solar, closed it, and slumped down into his chair after giving the maester the scroll to send to Daenerys Targaryen. The sun was still shining, though dull, but the sky was laying a blanket of gray over Winterfell as the the rain sprinkled from above. Soft gray light filtered in through the open window and fell over the papers on his desk.

He needed a moment in silence, a moment to think about all that had transpired. The news didn’t land as positively as he’d wished, yet it turned out exactly as he thought it would. He couldn’t see a way to avoid Daenerys, but even so, he felt restless inside knowing that he’d just invited an unknown daughter of a tyrant to Winterfell. The waiting made him anxious. His people were counting on him to keep them safe. His family.

Bran, Arya, Sansa.

They’d just taken their home back, his  _ mother’s _ home back. He couldn’t lose it again. He  _would_ not lose it again. He felt strong in his resolve, yet Jon knew how little things like that could matter in the face of a tyrant. Perhaps he was being too harsh on his aunt. He didn’t know the woman, he’d only heard stories. They told stories about him too, stories that were less than true. They told stories of Bran and Arya’s deaths. They told stories of Sansa’s killing of Joffrey. They told stories of Ned’s traitorous backstabbing of his king.

Stories.

Woven into the fabric of Westeros by men and women who knew not of that which they spoke, yet they cast very real people under light of deceit and exaggeration, making villains of them before the eyes of men. It made him think of the stories and songs he used to know as a child. How much of them were true? How much of what they know of Daenerys was true? He had no way of knowing, and perhaps he should await her with an open mind instead of twisted knots in his belly.

Perhaps if Jon had lived a different life he could have done this easily. If he hadn’t lived as a bastard and seen the other side of courteous faces. If his father hadn’t been wrongfully murdered, and his brothers too. Lady Stark—for all the acceptance she withheld from him was still by all counts a good and honorable woman—lived to see the day that all her family was taken from her and then she herself was mocked even in death. His sisters brutalized, hungry, afraid, sold, alone.

No. House Stark had suffered and bled enough. Long before there ever was a Daenerys Targaryen, there were the Kings of Winter and the weirwood trees and the old gods and the Starks. The North was all that mattered now; he had to be wary of this queen the way Father failed to be with Cersei and Joffrey; the way Robb failed to be with the Freys.

 _You’re not Ned Stark_.

_You’re not Robb._

And he wasn’t. But for once, the thought made him glad. He has the opportunity to be better than the men he loved and lost; he has the opportunity to restore the North to its former glory, to reestablish independence from the rest of the realm. So he would do his best.

_I was dead once and now I live. This must be why.  
_

Robb’s face looked back at him against the black of his eyelids as he rested his face in his palms. Those striking blue eyes that Jon always wished he had. He was king before him; he died for the North, and Jon knew then that if he didn’t fight with all he had within him for their independence and justice, that Robb’s death will have been in vain. And Rickon’s. Even Catelyn Stark came to his mind. She was a Stark, no matter what else, and he would not let her death be in vain.

A rap came at the door, startling Jon up from the hunched over position he was sitting in. “Come in,” he called, in hoarse voice. He expected red hair and blue eyes, but a different face appeared from behind the wooden door. A soft, round face peeked through the door. “Sam, I said you can come in.”

“Your Grace,” Sam said, as he stepped in through the door and bowed his head.

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“You’re the king,” Sam said with a shrug. “It only seems right. Besides, you’d better get used to it. Everyone will be calling you that now.”

“I remember when all they used to call me was  _ bastard _ .”

“And Lord Snow,” Sam said with a reminiscent smile.

Jon rolled his eyes and chuckled half heartedly. “Aye, and that was even worse. What’ve you got there?” Jon asked, motioning to the large leather bound book held between Sam’s thick pale fingers.

Sam shook himself back to the present. “Oh, it’s uh...well, it’s why I’ve come.” He walked to Jon’s desk and let the book fall atop it. “I was going through the books, studying the Others. I figured we ought to be prepared with as much knowledge about them as we can. There isn’t much on them, except I did find this. Look.” He flipped frantically through the pages and pointed to an illustration with one finger as if Jon was supposed to understand his whole meaning.

“Dragonglass?”

“Dragonglass,” Sam repeated

“We already knew about that, Sam. I’m the one who found it, remember? And you’re the one who killed a wight with it. Or did you forget,  _ Sam the Slayer _ _?_ ”

“Oh please, stop that, I always hated that name.”

Jon smiled. “Alright then, you can stop calling me  _Your Grace_ . Just  _Jon_ will do. Now, the dragonglass. This isn’t new information.”

“Well, no, but I’ve found more of it, see? Or at least that’s what this book says. I’m not sure how completely reliable it is, but why would anyone fabricate—“

“Sam.”

Sam clamped his mouth at Jon’s calling if his name and gave him a wide eyed look.

“Where did you find the Dragonglass?”

“Well it’s in a cave, you see. It’s tons of Dragonglass, Jon, if the books tell it true. You’d have enough to forge weapons for your army and maybe even then some.”

“Where?”

Sam looked back at him with widened eyes and quivering cheeks. Nervousness wasn’t a new look for Sam, but it was making Jon nervous that the location of this cave would cause such a reaction from him.

“Sam. Where is the cave?”

Sam lowered his eyes to the pages again and swallowed thickly. He pointed to a name in the book, the location of this cave Sam spoke of. A place Jon had sworn he would not go, would not abandon his people for. Sam moved his eyes back up to Jon, and answered, “On Dragonstone.”

*

He needed to mine those caves. He needed the dragonglass from that island. It was yet another request he would make from his aunt; another thing that would weigh on him as they waited upon her arrival. Some days, Jon could not possibly understand why anyone would want to be king. The crown that was hastily forged for him to wear atop his head was light enough for comfort. Sansa had sketched it out to match the one Robb had worn when Winterfell’s throne belonged to him. It was simple, strong, and beautiful. And light. For nothing felt quite as heavy as the title of king—nothing felt as daunting. Not Ceresi, not Daenerys, and not the dead. Because now, every man, woman, and child was  his  child to look over and protect. His Lord Father Eddard Stark ruled as Warden in that manner, and now Jon did as king.

The sky had already darkened, the stars were scarcely visible, yet they twinkled above from behind the clouds. It was quiet. Still. Nights like this were the ones he’d missed the most when he was off at the Wall. In his memories, his brothers were always there. And Arya too, of course. But Sansa...

Sansa was always further away, somewhere just beyond his peripheral. There were some things he remembered about her—her love of lemon cakes, her pretty dresses, the way she smiled on Joffrey’s arm. He didn’t quite like to think on that last part. He never really let himself, and the reason had been  _ right there_ _,_ but he didn’t want to look at that either.

But in his memories her voice traveled from the little nook she’d tucked herself into with Lady. It traveled in low and soft waves from her lips to his ears. He watched her once, from around a corner. He didn’t want to disturb her; he quite liked the song she was singing.

Sansa had been his final thought as he lay dying, and she’d been the first thing to make him feel alive after resurrecting; she was the only thing he’d been sure about and made his heart feel like it was truly beating again. After finding each other, Jon no longer questioned whether or not he should still be alive, because she was  _ there _ , and how could being together again be wrong? It wasn’t.

It was right, the way her eyes find him in any crowd. The way her body fits perfectly in his arms. The way she stood just a little taller than him, making him have to look up at her. The way they can glance at each other and know what the other is thinking. The way she can still the rage within him with a single look. And suddenly the thought is  _ right there  _ again, but this time Jon wants to look at it, and wants to dream about it, and wants to make reality out of it.

He loved Sansa as a distant little sister once. But time and truth had made that love grow into something different. Jon supposed that he’s known it for quite some time, but now he felt it just beneath his skin every time they were together; every time he looked at her. It was getting harder to be around her and not let the words that simmered on his tongue fall out into the air. Changing everything.

And he knew she wasn’t his, not in the way that he wanted. But every night they shared by his hearth was his, and every laugh he drew out from her echoed in his mind. Memories of rain soaked mornings and her fingers lightly brushing his wrist belonged to him. He didn’t know whether he could ever tell her the extent of his affections for her, how when he looks at her it takes all his will power to tear his eyes away. How every time she smiles it makes him feel bashful like a little boy. Gods, even just the way she walks, the way she talks. The way his name falls out of her lips—lips that he’s spent more time than he’d like to admit daydreaming about, and that he can’t help but look down to each time they’re together. The sweep of her lashes, the slope of her nose all Stark on that Tully face.

And now he’s not just looking at it. He’s _staring_ at it, and he feels freed by it. To finally acknowledge that thing which has lived inside him for so long yet has never let himself truly long for. In the quiet and the stillness of the night, within the walls of Winterfell, Jon Snow let the words out.

“I’m in love with you, Sansa Stark.” He whispered softly, barely audibly, tasting the words as they left him, unbounded. He sat in the truth for a while, liking the way it made him feel to have admitted it aloud. No one was there to hear his confession. Just as easily as he’d whispered the words did they disappear again, as if taken by the wind out into the night. That made two secrets now, that if let out to the world, would change his own world completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and let me know your thoughts! ☺️

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you guys think and if you’d like the next chapter! :)


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